There. A faint slickness.
It could have been algae. It could have been nothing. But her mind quickly put the pieces together.
The villagers who drank directly from the loch were sickest. Those who boiled their water fared better. Those who had drawn from this stream were the most afflicted.
Her gaze moved downstream.
What if it was not the loch at all?
What if something was added where the water narrowed and slowed before continuing towards the village wells?
She stood, scanning the banks carefully now rather than wandering blindly. A pile of stones near the bend caught her eye.
Not natural. They were arranged too neatly.
She approached cautiously and crouched beside them. The stones were damp, but beneath one, the earth had been recently disturbed.
Her breath caught. She pushed one aside.
The soil beneath was darker—almost black—and faintly granular. She touched it, then hesitated.
Do not be foolish.
Instead, she removed a scrap of cloth and scooped a small amount into it. She tied the cloth tight and slipped it into her pocket.
Her heart was pounding now. Not from fear, but from certainty.
Someone is doing this deliberately.
She straightened and turned, scanning the trees again with sharper focus. Branches near the bank were broken at shoulder height. As if someone had crouched repeatedly. Waiting.
Her throat tightened.
She walked towards the merrily running stream again, but this time her steps were deliberate, investigative. And just as she neared a darker patch of ground near the water’s edge, she tripped, almost falling over something hidden in shadow.
Pinwheeling her arms, she caught herself and straightened up, looking down to see what she had tripped over. At first, she thought it was a bundle of cloth. Then she recognized the McGill plaid.
Her breath left her in a sharp gasp.
Dropping to her knees, she ran her fingers over him, trying to gauge whether he was alive. She moved the plaid aside, searching for his neck, wanting to feel his skin.
Her fingers brushed his throat. It was cool and clammy.
But there?—
A pulse. Weak.
She exhaled in relief and leaned closer, scanning his body. There was blood on his temple. Not from a blade, but from blunt force. His hands were scraped raw, as though he had tried to crawl.
Her mind raced.
He saw something.
He had been here investigating and had found something.
She turned his head gently, checking his pupils in the dim light. Responsive—barely.
She reached into her bag, fumbling for smelling salts. If she could rouse him even briefly?—
